Clipped Wings
by Faded Classic
Summary: Max's story from the 'deaths' of her flock to her own. It is about her version of the fictional events that happened before "On Angel's Wings". Angsty, and much implied!character death. Possible OOCness. T, for now. Part of the Wingsverse, 2/6. WIP.
1. Prelude

_Disclaimer: I, HallowedHallsOfWriting, give up any and all claim to ownership I might have had or will have to the series of Maximum Ride to one James Patterson, who I, a young girl, am most certainly not. Therefore, if I am sued for whatever-they-sue-you-for-when-you-don't-have-a-disclaimer, I am hereby innocent of all charges pertaining to this document._

**_- h e r t e a r s c a n n o t f a l l a n d s h e i s n o t h i n g b u t a b r o k e n c h i n a d o l l w h o h a s n o h o p e o f e v e r b e i n g f i x e d a g a i n -_**

_**Clipped Wings  
**HallowedHallsOfWriting_

She's watching now, just watching, like she always does. There is no life left in her eyes; it has been extinguished long ago, along with the life of those closest to her. She's no longer the girl she once was, no longer mother of three, sister of two (_no_, a traitorous part of her brain whispers, _he's not just a brother anymore_. She pushes that part firmly away, locking it in with the other thoughts of _him_). She's older, thinner, _different_. Wiser, perhaps; she begs to differ. If she was so _wise_, she wouldn't be here. She would be at home with her 'family', eating warm, buttery, fattening (_but she doesn't care, so long as she's near __him_) popcorn, sitting next to the fire, curled up in the heat of his arms as she watches the younger ones dance around and laugh with joy. But she isn't; the memories of the cold feel of their skin, the absent pulse of their blood, reminds her that they _are not here_, they _are lost forever_. She sits quietly, like a good little toy, as they fill her body with foreign chemicals; push her to the limits of her endurance. She goes through all this with the blank look on her face (_his__ trademark look_, she remembers bitterly, reminded of all the times he would look at her like a statue, just to get a rise out of her), becomes their perfect little doll, never speaking, never squirming, never running, never emotional, just their little wax doll now (_you deserve it_, a cruel voice whispers to her, its icy accusation stinging her. _Shut up_, she tells it. _Just go away!_). The voice in her head is no longer the supportive father figure, just another one of her demons, and daily it mocks her, laughing as she begs it to leave. But the voice never leaves, always remaining there, taunting her, shrieking painfully loud as it reminds her of her short comings and failures. It takes on a distinctive sound of five voices mocking her. _Failure_, the sweet, high voice laughs. _Incompetent_, the second, oh so similar to the first but deeper, continues. _Weakling_, the third, a mixture of honey and cocoa (_deep inside she knows it that foods don't make sound but that is the only description she can give the mellow voice_) jeers. _Worthless freak_, the fourth rumbles, like the coming of thunder. _Pathetic creature_, the fifth sneers derisively, the deep baritone, normally so warm and caring, now sharp as ice (and _that one hurts the worse because it's __his__ voice_).

The others in this house of hell, the ones running this, never look bothered at this change. And if some wonder what had happened to the seven year old who would look at them scornfully, as if they weren't worth her time, and fight them as they dragged her down forcefully to the labs, they never voice their ruminations. It has become just an accepted fact; she is a broken child, and they do not wish to destroy her anymore. Surprisingly (_to her at least_), they do not hate or hurt her as much as they did in the past; if anything, they avoid testing on her unless absolutely necessary (_which is, admittedly, often; the director does love to see her treasured pet punished for the time and money wasted on her hunting_). She has discovered many things which aid her, especially how to fend off newcomers. It is quite simple; a soulless, haunted look will send them skittering backwards. Interns or simply coffee runners (boys mostly; apparently, something about a helpless girl at their mercy boosts their ego, and they are not afraid to use it), do try to do disgusting things; feel her up, force her obediance, and things like that (_and she absolutely hates it; that is the only area she is untainted, and this makes her feel so dirty and disgusting and like the freak they say she is_). They are (_thankfully; but she will never say this out loud_) apprehended by the senior members. She doesn't have to worry about them doing those types of things; the newest do it, those who haven't been informed of her story and who she is (_and secretly a little part of her is smug and proud that her name alone carries so much weight in this area, making her out to be a legend, a martyr with a tragic ending_).

They never try it again.

All of the other creatures in this lab (_she allows herself a small, unseen smirk at the irony – creatures from hell created in a hell-hole_) know her name, know her story, who she is, and what she's done. And she is a hero to them; though they know that she is back here anyways, they know that there is a chance of escaping, a chance of living in the real world, and they worship her for being the brave one and taking the chance (_though she has paid dearly for it; no one knows this better than she_). In their eyes, she is a slighted goddess, a fallen angel, one who does not deserve a fate like this. They don't know the true her, though, and all her (_yes, __hers__; these people are the same ones who have been her testers since birth_) scientists are desperate to keep it that way. She is grateful for that; she does not wish to crush their views of their idol. She is their idol, and yet she is not; they see her as a rock, strong and unshakable. She would agree, if only to point out she was a _glass_ rock. She does not see herself as strong nor brave. She sees herself as failure, one who could not protect those who needed her when they needed it the most.

And so, her life goes on in a monotonous circle

During the nights, her apathy is broken. The pain comes back. She awakes with tears streaking down her face, her breathing ragged, her eyes red and face blotchy (_or so she thinks; she does not even recall what her face looks like, not anymore. She is too frightened of the monster she will see if she looks at her reflection_). And, in the pitch darkness, when she believes no one is watching, she lets her carefully constructed mask crumble, lets herself cry, lets herself shatter into a million pieces. And when dawn comes, before the lights are flicked on and people enter her room (_she has a room now, and while it isn't grand, only a small cubicle with a mattress, pillow, and cover on the opposite side of a sealed steel door, it's __her__ room and she is grateful to have something to call her own_), she picks up the pieces, glues herself back together, and acts as if nothing is wrong.

Though she has learned to forget about the others, work herself to the point of simply sleeping with no awareness of her nightmares, one remains branded into her mind, torturing her day and night, never letting her forget her inadequacy.

A single hand, bloody and torn reaches out to her, and pained eyes bore into her from a barely raised head, accusing.

_Why did you let us die, Max?_

She always wakes up from that one screaming.

**_- a n d u n l i k e h e r t e a r s t h a t d o n o t c o m e s h e i s a l w a y s s c r e a m i n g s o l o u d l y i t s h a t t e r s t h a t d r e a d e d n i g h t l y s i l e n c e -_**

_Well, I suprised even myself when writing this. Basically, so you know, this is part of my slowly-being-created Wings arc. Like On Angel's Wings, this follows Max's journey after being seperated from her flock and believing them dead. The creation of this story Arc was inspired by two of the reviewers from OAW, who expressed their dismay at the death of the Flock. It was Angel who I first decided would survive their capture in the background of the stories (the part where it branches off from the canon), then Max, then Fang, then Nudge and Iggy, and finally Gazzy. Ironically, they all think the others are dead, due to the clones they saw killed. As it is, this story is going to be no more than five chapters unless I really get into it. *shrugs*_

_Any questions or comments should be submitted through reviews. Much appreciated._

_~Hallow_


	2. Tempest

_Disclaimer: If I was James Patterson, then I can assure you that the Faxness wouldn't have been so rushed, and the shitty knock-offs that are "The Final Warning" and "MAX" wouldn't have existed as I would have stopped at the end of the Itex trilogy._

**_- f r a c t u r e d v i s a g e s p l i n t e r i n g l i k e c r a c k e d g l a s s t h e f i s s u r e s a s f i n e a s a s p i d e r s t h r e a d a n d h e r m i n d i s s l o w l y b r e a k i n g -_**

_**Clipped Wings  
**HallowedHallsOfWriting_

There it is, clear as a banner: **ITEX DISCOVERED TO BE BEHIND KIDNAPPING OF SENATOR'S NEWBORN CHILD!**

She knows it's one of many, having read the others: **FBI EXPOSES ITEXICON'S DIRTIEST SECRETS! ITEX DISCOVERED TO BE EXPERIMENTING ON HUMANS! ITEX CREATES HUMAN HYBRIDS FROM INNOCENT BABIES! ITEXICON'S DEPRAVED EXPERIMENTS UNCOVERED! ITEX FACING CAPITAL PUNISHMENT FOR ABDUCTION OF SEVERAL THOUSAND MISSING CHILDREN! ITEX COMPANY A CRIMINAL – WORLD THROWN INTO CHAOS! ITEXICON'S TRUE NATURE UNVEILED!** The list, she knows, goes on and on.

It truly annoys her, the hypocrisy of humans (_she hasn't counted herself as one for a long, long, so, so very long time_). How they turn a blind eye one time and are sobbing pathetically over the 'cruelty' and 'inhumanity' of the villains. _Funny_, she thinks, rather cynically (in her opinion, unknown, of course – the young mind-reader isn't here anymore to translate), _you weren't this vocal when your kind sold their own children to be turned into these monsters. Where were you when our kind needed you the most?_ In her mind, the human world is nothing but a (_neverending_) soap opera, where the characters are shallow and the plot overused. She longs for, wishes, hopes for a new twist, a new future, one that does not repeat the pattern of the world. None of her prayers have come true.

Humanity's willingness to throw away everything for a moment of peace, to simply forget about what they do not see fit to concern themselves with, truly irks her. It's what has caused countless deaths of parents, leaving starving children to fend for themselves. She would know – she's seen it happen, all around her, all the time. And it hurts, it's painful to know that their grief, outrage, and sympathy are only fake, hollow, false, untrue, masking relief that it had not been them or their children. At times, she truly wants to sink into naivety for one time, _just one time_, to be able to believe that they truly feel for her plight. That they are not just celebrating that it had not been them.

But that never happens, and she knows she cannot go back to the girl who only saw good in the world. Now, she is the one who judges others by the darkness of their hearts.

_Such a shame; the girl had such a bright future_, she hears them whisper when she and the others' quarters are discovered. _So terrible that a child had to go through this._

She says nothing (_but in her mind she rages at them, a spark rising from flattened embers; i don't want your false pity! don't patronize me!_). She stares at them with lifeless eyes. The murmurs increase; a cacophony in a world where she simply wants silence, an orderly place where she knows all, where there are no unexpected actions, where her knowledge is absolute and she is not helpless._ i pity the child poor girl are those wings what on earth happened here why is this child locked up this is a terrible crime those bastards will pay we'll make sure they rot for the pain they caused this poor little one __**shut up shut ******__up ****__shut-up-shut-up-leave-me-alone-shut-up-you-know-nothing-shut-up-you're-hurting-my-head-shut-up-shut-up-SHUT-UP_! The clamor and ruckus are pulling at her mind, breaking apart the fragile threads she uses to keep herself together. _**Why won't they leave me alone?**_ She watches with blank glassy hooded eyes when they yank apart the bars that serve as an extra door, an extra barrier, to keep her from escaping. She tenses when they pick her up, her light, underfed, skeletal frame littered with scars and unhealed gashes and black bruises, pain shooting through her stiff, unused joints. When she is slung like a sack over their shoulders a sense of self preservation kicks in and she hits and punches and kicks and even tries to bite, trying to scream (_but all that comes out is a raspy breath from locked up, forgotten vocal cords_). When she is brought out and put in the back of a large steel contraption (_that she is sure is meant to deliver her to the very depths of hell because of her unforgivable sins and its terrible vision, a created monstrosity_) she is struck by panic again as she is loaded in like a package or object, and lashes out. She writhes from side to side, avoiding those damnable hands and those calming, illusory voices belying their true (_in her mind and maybe she is just being paranoid and suspicious but she decided she doesn't care and will believe her fragmented and unstable psyche_) purpose, screams tearing themselves from her hoarse throat, destroying her voice once again, her mind attempting to block out all the snippets of conversation and only screams louder when she feels the cold metal and sanitary smell. She shrieks her most piercing when she feels that frigid, smooth tip of a needle against her skin, a sensation that is always followed by, that she will forever associate with, pure and undiluted pain. It grows steadily louder when the sharp point is pushed farther in her skin, into her veins, before finally, her cry is at its highest, and is abruptly cut off, not fading, simply cut short by the sedatives shot through her blood.

_**- w h y d o e s n o b o d y h e a r h e r s c r e a m s t h a t h e r a l d t h e e n d o f h e r f r a g i l e p s y c h e a n d s e v e r s h e r b o n d w i t h r e a l i t y -**_

When she awakens, she wants to know is _where am i what is going on what are they do – _and her thoughts are rapidly cut off when this brightness filters in through the glass she is facing and she almost screams again but catches her self in time. She doubles over, gasping for breath, a warm, unfamiliar wetness sliding down her cheeks and dripping down onto her white clothing, leaving circular scarlet stains on the pristine, snowy fabric (_that is softer oh so much softer than what she has worn in quite a while, possibly ever_). Raising her hands to her face, she feels the salty trails winding down her soft porcelain skin, and when she pulls her hands away, they are stained crimson.

Then she realizes that she has been crying blood with tears mixed in.

She stares ahead at the glorious light, tempting fate and the angels and the deities, and suddenly all she can see is _whitewhitewhite_ and then the world fades into a stygian soot-shaded existence. She yells, panicking again. Why can't she see anything? Where are the colors and the shapes and the objects (_and a traitorous thought sneaks in that she wouldn't even mind seeing the damned pity that always shines in unknowing, untainted, __**human**__ eyes_)?

Why can't she see?

And then it strikes her: she is blind. Blind like her brother-yet-not-brother, her flockmate, her blood bonded. Her pale-eyed, fair-haired, fair-skinned sibling who she failed (_like so many others_, the voice nags, but she shoves it aside due to the severity of the situation). It greatly disturbs her that she doesn't even have the luxury of seeing; her, She-Of-The-Eagle-Hawk-Eyes. And she feels like screaming, calling others to her, to _fix her_, in her bout of selfishness. But when she opens her mouth, not a sound comes out.

She feels the wetness trailing down her cheeks, and doesn't need _his_ power, _Iggy's_ power, to know that the tears are the color of fresh carnage again.

So she lies down, accepting, feeling deserving of her fate. Quite a while later (_exactly seven hundred and sixty two thousand, five hundred, and fifty four seconds later – two hundred eleven hours, forty-nine minutes, and fourteen seconds – she counted_) a doctor (_or someone who she believes to be a doctor; she doesn't know_) comes and reads her 'symptoms' – or, more accurately, just what the fuck is wrong with her – out loud. And she listens.

Temporary blindness (_and she can't help the sigh of relief because she knows the blackblackblacktotaldarkness won't be there forever; then she feels overly selfish as her brother-who-was-not was truly blind, not temporary, unlike her, and had never seen that light that seems so dim and far away now but was _**freedom**), retinal damage, damage of vocal cords to the point of muteness, Cruentus-Inundantia symptons, lung detoriation, radiation poisoning, Post-Trauma Stress Disorder, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, and the list goes on and on.

The doctor prescribes a therapist; in a fit of old-Maxness, she snorts mentally and thinks, _no shit genius. with how fucked up i am, it's a wonder i'm not assigned to an asylum. permanently_. And she laughs – or tries to – at him with his prissy little know-it-all tone, and his audible, tangible distaste at how disgusting her person is. He caustically suggests that the aides bathe her, like she's a retarded, brain-dead imbecile. She inwardly seethes (_stupid little man i'm not a completely helpless wax doll_). And then she starts coughing, a hacking, gasping noise coming in from the depths of her chest. Something damp lands on the hand she uses to cover her mouth.

She doesn't need her eyes to identify the liquid is blood.

The coppery metallic smell is enough.

_**- h e r s a n i t y i s s i m p l y g l a s s t h a t i s b r e a k i n g a p a r t u n t i l i t i s n o t h i n g b u t g l i s t e n i n g p i x i e d u s t s h a r d s -**_  
_**- w h y d o e s n o o n e c a r e ? -**_

_And so ends the second chapter. I hope this was alright, and I didn't mess up the new persona of Max I created (who is overly fucked-up, and not just physically). For those of you who like this little universe I've created, I'm going to make a oneshot __prequel to explain how they got into this predicament and who the true mastermind backer of Itex is. It'll be shocking, I'll tell you that much._

_I checked my inbox. Wow. I did not expect to get so many positive responses to my story, including reviews, favorites, and alerts, in just three to four days. I love you all!_

_Oh, just so you know, Cruentus-Inundantia is a medical condition I created. It explains why she is crying (and coughing) blood, and it is a sickness unique to the avian-human hybrids, due to the small mutation the scientist created and put into their DNA. Basically, when she is in deep shock or trauma, her blood cells start rapidly flooding the area where the shock/trauma occured, and it escapes the way, through tear ducts or coughing/gag reflexes. Also, her OCD comes in the form of needing to know everything. When she has a 'fit', I guess you could call it, she'll randomy start calling out information and facts. Both are probably impossible, but hey, I have an Artistic License!_

_Just so you know, the - things are because stupid document wouldn't let me blend it all into one word. Oh well._

_Reviews are loved, as always._

_~Hallow_


	3. Contravene

_Disclaimer: If you need further disclaiming than the past two chapters, here it is. I, as a female minor, can assure you I am not male, nor am I married to a woman, nor – god forbid – the father (haven't I just stated I am **female**?) of a young boy. Nor am I middle-age. I am also not Melina Marchetta, nor do I own Jellicoe Road, the quote 'and life goes on,' or the quote 'My name is...'. Thank you._

**_- t h i s i s t h e s t o r y o f h e r n e w s t a r t f r e e f r o m t h e s h a c k l e s o f h e r o l d l i f e . o r s o t h e y c l a i m - _**

_**Clipped Wings  
**HallowedHallsOfWriting_

She sits.

She watches.

She waits.

_**- t h e t r u t h o f t h e m a t t e r i s t h a t t r u l y n o o n e c a r e s d e s p i t e t h e c h a r a d e . j u s t h e r o w n s e l f a l o n e i n t h e b l a n k i n f i n i t y -**_

There is a blindfold-bandage wrapped around her eyes, preventing her from destroying (_seeing_) her sight (_surroundings_) anymore (_forevermore_). Her chestlunglungheart throb dully (_she can see them slowly fading, in her mind's eye – she can see them failing her_). She is painfully aware of her bloodloss, the coppery liquid (_she can _feel_ it pooling just beneath her skin_). Her eyes, her throat, are dry, so, so dry (_and it hurtshurtshurts…why won't it go away why won't the burn die down?_).

And life goes on.

She sits and waits and begs in her mind for someone to take her away from this (_tell me when this ends_, she cries). It's so surreal, like a terrible, terrible dream that she just can help living (_except the dreams are better because they _end), like a never-ending maze of endless drifting that she'll never be free from (_though she wants to badly badly badly so so so badly_). Beneath the soft strips of cloth that obscures her vision, it's so terribly lonely.

And it's dark, so, so dark. Her world is loud but lightless, bursts and sparks in a deserted universe, and the stars are nothing but ever-shifting, ever-restless shadows. The parallels of her sight and the desert are so similar: endless and empty.

In a way, she envies it.

The desert has, after all, known nothing more. And it's self-pitying, she knows, but surely, it must hurt less to never know anything beyond the scope of it's reach, never know what lies out there, or what it's missing out on (_never felt the pain of the thousand fiery bullets of loss. never known the feeling of missing something_). No maybes, no if onlys, no could have beens. No wishes or wants, hopes or dreams. Knowing… nothing.

Just… itself.

But she can dream, though those may turn into nightmares at a moment's notice, so she counts herself infinitesimally luckier.

And life goes on.

_**- b u t o n l y **__**a l o n e c a n s h e r e s t b e c a u s e s h e i s s t i l l o n h e r o w n i n t h i s s e a o f s n o w w i t h n o t h i n g b u t h e r t e r r i f i e d b r o k e n m i n d -**_

She's crying again (_weak, weak, you weak little girl_).

She feels the soft, caressing cloth soaking up the red-and-clear-and-in-between colored liquid, feeling damp and heavy against her porcelain skin. It feels strange, but comforting; knowing it will always be there gives her some strange sort of feeling.

But she disregards the feelings and spiritual relations as she goes and sits in the Blank-Room, where they take her and the others like her to be questioned about what had gone on. The instigators are all so dedicated to finding out what was going on there, but she doesn't open her mouth one tiny centimeter, not when they ask about what happened, and not when they demand the names of the so-called _scientists_ (_that word is said with so much disgust and disdain and repulsion, it reminds her of when the higher-ups would talk about 'the_ experiment_'_) who did this to them, and most certainly not when they press for any information (_dirt_) on the other experiments. She has one answer, and one answer only for them, on all (_but especially the last_) of their requests, though it stays locked in the back of her brain and never escapes her lips.

She is Maximum Ride, and Maximum is nothing if not a traitor or back-stabber.

She never opens her mouth once during the interrogation.

The questioners sigh, making noises of disapproval and disappointment. She _knows_ what they are trying to do, and she will not let them. There were some good people there, despite their chosen line of profession, and she will guard their secrets as well as they guarded hers.

It's only fair, after all. Equivalent Exchange. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life.

She has, after all, already achieved revenge for the death of her first (_only_) family, therefore leaving her nothing to avenge furthermore. So she keeps her mouth shut and mind wandering, and eventually they give up on prying information out of her. They figure she is deaf as well as dumb as well as blind, and no use to them at all.

She hears them, though. She hears what they have planned for all the elder ones deemed fit and stable. They will use them, use them to further their research and military and weaponry, and the poor children are so starved for attention and so soft and pliable, none will refuse the apparent kindness and goodwill. Nor will they have the experience to divine when they are being lied to and manipulated, and when the offer is genuine. She does, though, and that is why she will not allow herself to be used. After the psychological evaluation, she confronts the man-in-charge.

The next day, to the everlasting confusion of the residents of this facility, they are deported to their long-lost families and orphanages across the world.

It's just her luck she is sent to one in the immediate vicinity of Death Valley, California.

And Fate wonders why she is cursed by this child so often?

_**-**__** o h , l i t t l e c h i l d , b e n o t a f r a i d , f o r a g e n t l e s o m e o n e a l w a y s c a m e . . . o h n o , t h e y m u s t h a v e m i s s e d y o u . n o w w h a t w i l l y o u d o ? -**_

And life goes on.

When she arrives at the home, she changes her name.

Maximum Ride, she knows, is an internationally famous name. From the pictures and news stories, to F – _his_ blog, to government reports, it crops up quite often. She does not wish to be snatched up like a prime piece of meat at a store simply for her _name_. So she changes it. She likes it a lot.

Shae. Shhhhu-aaaayyyyyuu. Shu-ae. Shae.

It rolls of her tongue like honeyed syllables, and as she repeats it to herself, she knows that it is _her_ name, one that will define her truly, like Maximum did.

Shae Sullivan. Hawk-like dark eyes.

It fits, in her opinion.

After she and the others who will go to the same orphanage as her, she immediately claims the uppermost room, the one in the attic, after navigating her way up by peeling off the blindfold. Though not an overly spacious room, it is not drafty, and has a skylight that takes up a quarter of the ceiling, complete with a hatch that opens up to the heavens. She can't help but think that it is made especially for her. There is a small twin bed in the corner, along with a nightstand facing opposite of a dresser that isn't very big, but she has never felt more at home. Not even the E-shaped house in the mountains had the feeling of perfection this one did.

The happiness that filled her was faint (_just a simple light tune silently humming and for once she feels at peace_). It comes from being in an entirely knew place, with no memories to chain her to her past.

But she isn't complaining. She hasn't felt it for quite a while.

(_run run run little coward_)

_**- s**__** h e r u n s c l i n g s t o t h e f e e l i n g s s h e h a s n o t f e l t i n s u c h a w h i l e s o t h a t s h e m i g h t s a v o r i t o n e l a s t t i m e b e f o r e i t i s g o n e f o r e v e r -**_

It was the third day she was there when it happened. One second, the kids (_mutants_) were settling in, and the next day they were packing their bags and leaving.

There was a flood of people, and she was the first to see, perched up on the roof as she so often was. A flood of people who entered the doors and started clamoring to adopt the 'poor, suffering children.' And her mind darkens (_whoever gave you the right to decide what happens us?_) as she sees the 'cute' hybrids being claimed for adoption, from the adorable little five-year-old with fluffy grey mouse fur for hair, to the cute ten-year-old with the sleek calico cat ears, to the fourteen-year old girl (_who reminds her so much like her old self, all fiery temper, unbridled spirit, and feisty attitude, that it **hurts**, dammit_) with the downy speckled-snow owl wings. From the little fox-boy, barely old enough to walk, to the butterfly girl, with beautifully patterned fragile wings. Until she is the only one left simply because she burned her profile and hid in her attic-room, watching as when the couples realize there are no more hybrids left, turn and walk out of the building, ignoring the so-called _normal_ children, who are devastated (_and she knows this because she has seen the look on her face so many, many times_). She sees the crushed look on their faces as each genetically engineered child is carried out like a prized pet, and their only consolation is that not many of the 'special' (_oh how she hates that word_) children are looking entirely pleased with their fate.

Her feeling of maybe-happiness has been flattened. She is once again appalled at the despicable cruelty and blatant favoritism those who are _different_ are shown. The knowledge imbeds itself in her head and she feels she will never trust a human again.

She tries though, to lift the spirits of the unclaimed. She shows her wings and allows them to stroke them, despite the internal conflict (_dirtydirty hands grubby paws running up and down in a mockery of caresses crush the infidels' bones to dust _**how dare you touch me**) of her mind, and attempts to downplay the flinches caused by over sensitization and the deeply ingrained reflex that touch only means pain (_the rough pad of fingertips then the sharp scalpel carving into her skin it __**burns**_). She lets them revel in the knowledge that she was forgotten also and that they are not alone.

She figures, _What harm could such a lie do?_

And life goes on.

_**-**__** a n d s h e k n o w s t h e p o o r i n n o c e n t s o u l s c a u g h t i n t h i s b a t t l e w i l l n e v e r c o m e o u t a l i v e a n d t h e r e i s n o t h i n g s h e c a n d o a b o u t i t -**_

During the night, the screams return.

The first time it happens, she is unaware, and suddenly awakens from the (_bloodyviolenthopeless_) nightmare by the shaking of her body caused by another's hands. Letting out an unholy screech, she leaps up from the bed and has the owner of the offending hand pinned to the wall by his throat, which is being slowly squashed (_cartilage slowly folding into itself_). Blood (_darkrustred_) dripping from the crescent-shaped wounds caused by ragged fingernails (_**beastlikeclaws**_) drip down to stain his shirt-collar red before she realizes where she is, and she awakens. There are worried (_frightened_) faces peering in that have been shocked to see that the terrifying, keening, haunting shrieks have been coming from their 'Sis'. That she isn't just a kind and sweet girl who lets them play around with her 'extra appendages,' but a real, live, horror movie soundtrack. That she is not a doting older sister, but a monstrous creation, willing to kill. In a way, she is, she muses. Having no feelings like the china doll she has so often been compared to, she has no doubt that she is a horrendous abomination to the young, naïve children, who are so young and untainted. She figured this day would come (_though not so soon_), and so she is grateful that she is missing the emotions needed to form guilt over the action.

It almost hurts when the next day, they dash away as soon as she shows her face.

And it does hurt, when she finds herself all alone (_no matter that she expected it and this isn't the first time_) the next night. All on her own, after being surrounded by others who _care_, cracks her slowly repairing, still fragile psyche. And the next day.

And the next.

But she vainly struggles, tries to embrace her new persona, tries to exceed Maximum (_failure_) Ride (_monster_). And every night, she whispers to herself, in a pathetic attempt to bring some small comfort. _My name is Shae Sullivan. I will surpass this._

But it goes on and on and on and on until finally, she breaks. She is just the lifeless doll she was back in the labs once more. Never moving from her room, the only one who dares approach her quickly hurries out of the room as soon as she turns her flat, uncaring stare upon them (_why do you torture me so?_).

This is what she is. A shattered glass doll, all china fragments and fragile shards that break and break and break in so many, too many, rough, unforgiving, careless hands until nothing, _nothing_ but glittering grains of delicate glass dust.

Broken. Breaking, even. But broken, nonetheless.

(_and in her mind the voices come back, doubled in strength – whispering curses of __**foolweaklingworthles patheticexcuseforamonster**__ into the corners of her mind, filling the cracks and gapes in the rupturing ramparts with sinuous murmurs that just __**won't go away...**_)

She is unable to keep herself together, so she does the next best thing.

She splinters apart.

_**-**__** s o s h e o n l y b r e a k s v i v i d , a b r i g h t c r i m s o n s t a i n p r o c l a i m i n g t h e e n d t o t h e w o r l d . h i d i n g i n p l a i n s i g h t , s h e i s f o r g o t t e n . . . -**_  
_**- a n d l i f e g o e s o n -**_

_I'm back, and I hope that most of you, if not all, are satisfied with this chapter. I'm not that sure, considering the tone fluctuates a bit, but hopefully you all are happy._

_Just a quick note for those of you who are waiting for updates: I am most likely not going to update again until the problems in On Angel's Wings are fixed. And that will be quite some time. I'm sorry, but I have a lot on my plate right now, and as much as its killing me to slow down my writing production, I need to focus on school for a bit. __Also, I have a pet project I've been working on for a while. It's a series of drabbles on all the members of the Flock. I've only got Max half-way done, so you should not expect that anytime soon. If any of you want to PM me request for prompts, that would be lovely._

_As always, positive and consrtuctive comments are appreciated._

_~Hallow_


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